Brothers in Arms
by Feej
Summary: "No." "I haven't said anything yet, brother dear," Mycroft smiles.  Sherlock helps his brother on a case. New questions arise, old memories resurface. How invincible are the Holmes boys exactly?   Follows 'Inadequate'. Adventure, drama, humor, H/C, enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Brothers in Arms**

* * *

><p>"No."<p>

"I haven't said anything yet, brother dear," Mycroft smiles.

John chuckles; he knows the routine. Mycroft will be marching out of 221B within… fifteen minutes, he guesses, if Sherlock already reaching for his violin is anything to go by.

Sherlock smirks, comments on Mycroft's diet, his PA and the state of the country in general, and John makes that ten minutes, reminding himself that hiding both the nicotine patches _and_ the gun might have been a bit harsh, as it doesn't seem to have done Sherlock's attitude any good.

Then again, he smiles silently to himself, it is Mycroft he is talking to; what was he expecting?

He goes to make tea, misses the glance Mycroft sends in his direction, and it takes him a while to notice the fact that Sherlock has stopped insulting his brother, and is now listening, John would almost say intently, to Mycroft.

Who is talking in… French?

After which Sherlock gets up and grabs his coat while muttering something unintelligible. Probably also French, John decides.

_"…__imbécile__, et à quelles fins?" _

Yes, definitely French.

Sherlock and Mycroft, having an actual conversation, in bloody _French_, and the aforementioned _imbécile__s _are now on their way out, solving a case or saving the damn world for all he knows.

John pinches the bridge of his nose. He really, really shouldn't be this surprised anymore.

* * *

><p>Sherlock flicks his eyes over the map spread out on the mahogany desk, the list of names and faces, scribbles in that illegible handwriting his older brother produces when he lets himself. He looks up, searching his brother's face.<p>

"You shouldn't have gotten involved in this, Mycroft."

"I am aware," Mycroft twists his fingers absentmindedly and purses his lips. "I had little choice, Sherlock." He smiles mirthlessly. "They had information on what people would call... my _weak spot_." The last two words are pronounced with just enough disdain.

Sherlock's eyebrows almost disappear into the mass of curls, and he smiles a smile of disbelief. "Your… say that again?"

Mycroft leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on his brother's face, and breathes out through his nose.

Sherlock's smile fades. "Oh."

He takes the envelope his brother passes him, slips out the blurry photographs and frowns. Sherlock flips through the images. He is standing on the doorstep of 221B talking to Lestrade; he is sitting in a café, not-eating and smiling at John; he is playing the violin in front of the window, and always oblivious to the red dot hovering over his back.

Sherlock glances at his brother, narrowing his eyes in confusion "I don't see how this would…" and then - _John in a ridiculous parka and the smell of chlorine and the red dots daring him to make a wrong move and JohnJohnJohn and not being able to breathe and _oh yes, he sees – he closes his eyes briefly before clearing his throat and focusing back on Mycroft.

"What do you need me to do first?"

* * *

><p>Mycroft suppresses a snort. Not very successful, unfortunately, but then again, his younger brother does look ridiculous, and it isn't often that he gets to see this.<p>

"Not really your colour, I would say," he says, carefully not grinning in Sherlock's general direction. A huff and a 'doshutup_Mycroft' _is all he receives in return. He keeps watching, however, as his brother adds some final touches to his disguise, and he has to admit, it's good.

Sherlock eyes himself in the familiar mirror, ties his bow tie, and mumbles absentmindedly 'loop, double… loop, hold, _double,'_ his eyes narrowed in concentration.

Mycroft watches and wonders, savouring the moment, while ignoring the knot of inexplicable regret, tugging at his insides.

He refocuses. "Now remember, no dramatic deductions, just –"

"- play the game, and talk them into giving me the information, yes, Mycroft, you've told me. I am capable of remembering the basics."

Mycroft doesn't miss a beat. "Try not to attract too much attention; they will be expecting something and- "

"-try not to get yourself killed this time," Sherlock chimes in, adding an almost-chuckle and giving his brother the Eye roll of Exasperation He shrugs on his coat, wraps the shawl around his neck "Oh, better stay away from the fridge, Mycroft, might have accidentally placed some slightly toxic experiments in it." At his brother's frown he sends him a blinding smile, while heading out the door, "Always glad to help out with the diet, brother dear," and he's gone.

* * *

><p>It takes Sherlock three hours, some flirting, two handshakes and one and a half phone calls to get the information he needs.<p>

It takes Mycroft five minutes and twenty seconds to connect the dots and figure out their next move.

Bach plays in the background.

"There's chocolate on your sleeve, Mycroft," Sherlock remarks absentmindedly, while removing the last traces of his disguise.

"There's lipstick on your collar," is the amused reply.

Sherlock smirks and brushes some blonde hairs out of his eyebrows. "Did get her to give me the right name, though."

"I'm sure you did."

"Did you find the-"

"-yes, Sherlock, very amusing, would you mind telling me what exactly you needed two dead platypa for?"

"As I said, always glad to help out with the diet."

Mycroft huffs absentmindedly and starts talking into his phone the second whoever he was calling picks up. He glances at his younger brother, who nods in affirmation as he lists names and locations.

Before the phone call is finished, the elder Holmes has already started shifting the papers in front of him, frowning, scribbling and drumming some undistinguishable rhythm with his left hand on the wooden desk. Sherlock comes to stand beside him.

"Have you tried-"

"-yes."

"No, I mean the supplier. If we find him-"

"I've tried that, Sherlock, can't track him down. In too deep."

Sherlock frowns, flicks his eyes over the pictures, names, faces, lines connecting people seemingly at random and murmurs something.

"No, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffs, glances at the mess of paper on the table, takes the pen from his brother's hand, and crosses out names, underlines others, before finally circling a rather blurry picture showing a brown-haired man in his forties, smiling charmingly at the security cameras.

"It all comes down to him. Track him down and you're done."

He watches as his brother hunches over the material once again, turns up the volume of Partita no. 2, and leaves quietly.

* * *

><p>Mycroft is startled out of his concentration by the time the recording gets to the opening notes of the Sarabande.<p>

"Sherlock"

When he gets no response, he just pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, before pouring himself another drink and downing it in one go.

* * *

><p>He returns early the next morning, all energy, arms and hands gesturing wildly, talking at full speed whilst waving a note in his brother's face. Something important it seems, some hint, some clue as to where their man might be.<p>

Mycroft doesn't listen.

He looks.

And he sees. Oh yes, he sees. He sees the way his younger brother's hands shake slightly as they used to do. He smells the smell of alcohol and neglect as he used to smell it in that dump he got his brother out of twice, back then. He sees, smells, observes, deduces, and knows very well where the information comes from, where his little brother has gone, even though he _told _him that it-

"Sherlock!"

The outburst is sudden and comes without warning. "A bloody- SHERLOCK, what were you even _thinking…" _

"Mycroft…"

Before he can stop himself, Mycroft has slammed his fist into the table, a too familiar gesture for the both of them. "Reckless little …" he turns to Sherlock "What is _wrong_-"

The sight of his younger brother cuts him off right there. A sharp intake of breath and the cold, stone mask that he remembers so well falls into place. Mycroft closes his eyes. It doesn't matter that he didn't actually say the words. Mycroft knows his brother hears their father rage just like it echoes in his own mind _"What is wrong with you?" _

Mycroft clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he tells the table. Sherlock doesn't seem to register his words, eyes focusing on a spot just over Mycroft's shoulder. The elder Holmes reaches out and tentatively lays his hand on his brother's arm.

"Sherlock…"

The reaction is instant. Sherlock tenses and backs off as if scolded, his face as impassive as ever. He lets the note slip through his fingers, shakes his head once and is gone again.

* * *

><p>Mycroft stares at the door long after his brother has gone. He should follow him. He should go after him.<p>

_What is wrong with you!_

The sound of a slamming door echoes in his brain, quick little feet racing up the stairs -

_What is wrong with you! _He buries his head in his hands.

He should have- If only he'd done something, anything.

Over the last dramatic chords of Bach's Chaconne, Mycroft shoves his chair back, stands up abruptly, takes the note and goes out.

* * *

><p>Sherlock surveys the now-empty room, drinking in as many details as he can.<p>

_Empty glass, that means three already, no new scribbles, note gone, two pencils snapped – gone out angry and in a hurry..._

His eyes rest on the closed drawer, before roaming over their improvised map of London, filled with unreadable comments and blurry pictures. He blinks. The address on the note - it makes sense - if only he could see what-

"Mycroft…"

Faces, names, places and people click together slowly

"... what have you…"

His mind connects the dots at full speed now.

"Shit!"

He forces the drawer open, takes out their father's gun and runs.


	2. Chapter 2

It was, Mycroft admits to himself, not the smartest move he could have made. He should have let his people handle it, instead of coming here.

_Coming here alone, at that,_ his mind provides. _The man appears every bit as charming and dangerous as he did when he was but a name and a picture on the desk. _

He should have let Sherlock know where he was going. What he had found

_What __**was**__ that man rambling about...?  
><em>

Well, at least Sherlock was somewhere safer than here.

_Three guards outside the room, heavily armed. Running is out of the question, then. _

On second thought, was Sherlock ever safe…? The kid had a sixth sense when it came to finding trouble. Mycroft chuckles at the memory of a ten-year-old Sherlock stuck in mummy's corset and his indignant face when his ever-so-mature older brother could do nothing but giggle helplessly.

_Chuckling is not appreciated by the man with the gun_. Mycroft makes another mental note of that while wiping the blood from his mouth.

_Also, __I__ should have brought my gun_.

* * *

><p>The idiot should have brought his bloody gun. Sherlock curses under his breath as he picks the lock.<p>

Hopelessly unoriginal, abandoned warehouse…

"Foolish, reckless, irresponsible…"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like John's mutters, "Family trait". Sherlock opens the door and grins as his tall form melts into the shadows of the dark hallway.

* * *

><p>Mycroft blinks.<p>

His brother dislikes guns. Impersonal, he calls them.

Still, it is his brother, his little brother, who now stares at him over the barrel of the gun. Their father's gun.

The man that had just pointed his own at Mycroft's perfect poker face now lays at his feet. He stares at the motionless figure and back at Sherlock. A kill shot.

He understands, for the first time, why people are scared of his brother. The anger, the white-hot-rage that seethes behind the quicksilver eyes, the lips in a thin line, almost as if he wanted to bare his teeth at his now-defeated opponent; this is not the anger Mycroft remembers Sherlock displaying after being followed by one of his big black cars, not the rage he had witnessed after trying to send his brother off to rehab, not the lightning that had flashed in his eyes whenever he mentioned mummy.

Mycroft takes one involuntary step back.

The movement seems to snap his younger brother out of it, whatever it might have been. Sherlock crosses the room in a few steps. Enough for Mycroft to notice the limp, the cut on his head and the way he favours his left side.

"Are you all right?"

Mycroft just stares. _Three guards_.

"Mycroft."

_His eyes are unfocused as well, concussion, going by the way he holds his shoulders_

"_Mye" _

"I'm fine."

Sherlock shakes his head and seems to regret the movement immediately. "You're bleeding," he states.

"So are you," Mycroft gestures to his brother's left arm.

The younger Holmes looks down at himself and blinks, his mouth forming a perfect "oh."

Mycroft takes one step, closing the small distance between them, and drapes his brother's arm over his shoulder. Sherlock winces when an arm is wrapped around his injured side, but does not back away. "No hospitals," he mumbles.

Mycroft shakes his head. "Just taking you home."

* * *

><p>Baker Street is only a few blocks away. They sneak in through the back door, trying not to wake John, muttering, bickering and giggling, high on adrenaline and whatever this may be.<p>

"Sherl-"  
><em>"-what are<em>-"  
>"-could you kindly remove those skinny elbows from my –"<br>"-_if you'd have kept to the bloody diet there would be no need to_-"  
>"-oh, shut your mouth or I'll bruise another rib."<p>

_-"No, you won't."_  
>-"Wouldn't bet on it. Now sit down."<p>

Sherlock flops down on the bed while Mycroft retrieves a dusty first aid kit from the drawer beneath the pompous head of Johann Sebastian. Sterile patches, tape and some plasters find their way into hands that do their job at patching his brother up without much thinking.

Muscle memory, he supposes.

Sherlock takes one dazed look at his older brother's face and chuckles, mumbling something about looking like Dracula and being an idiot in general.

Mycroft scoffs and tells Sherlock exactly who he thinks is the idiot here, and that _he_ is not the one who got himself concussed.

"There were three guards Mycroft, even you couldn't have missed that," Sherlock mutters, wincing slightly as his knuckles are bandaged.

"I know," Mycroft offers. "How did you - well - what did you…"

Sherlock cocks his head and gives his brother a lopsided smile, "Jab-straightright-lefthook".

"Always a good opening," Mycroft nods. He smiles through the odd taste of pride and regret that has started to bubble in the back of his throat like one of Sherlock's more dubious experiments. "Get some sleep, will you, you look like hell."

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes –previous experience has taught him that the combination Eyeroll-Concussion is Not Good. Not good at all – and lies down, glancing at his brother's busted lip and grinning: "Fix your face, Mycroft".

* * *

><p>Mycroft stares.<p>

Mirror-Mycroft stares right back. He frowns and wonders when his hair has gotten thinner, what has made the lines in his face grow deeper, and most of all, when his eyes have grown cold.

He doesn't know.

He washes the blood from his face and tries again.

_Well_, he mutters inaudibly, _that didn't help much, did it?_ With the swollen nose, grayish stubble and purple bags under his eyes it is even more obvious. His father stares at him through the mirror, a look of resigned disappointment present on his face. Mycroft shuts his eyes, shakes his head and leaves the bathroom.

* * *

><p>Mycroft is awake when Sherlock wakes up. Not that he has slept much.<p>

At first he had tried to wake Sherlock every hour, as that is what people seem to do when taking care of a concussed person, isn't it? Unfortunately, his concussed person had not been too open to this theory, and after having his hand nearly bitten off by a rather grumpy younger brother, Mycroft had abandoned the idea.

Deducing Sherlock's room had been far more interesting. Periodic table – as if he needs it in print, the little show-off. Mycroft suppresses a grin as he remembers his brother's colourful sketch of the whole thing in his old bedroom –science books were expensive. Mummy had not been pleased, even though a nine-year-old Sherlock had assured her that it was a _really_ accurate periodic table, and had it painted over.

A soft snore from the bed brings him back to the room. The épée, proudly hung on the wall opposite the Judo certificate, brings a smile to his face. How easily people underestimated his brother.

_Morons_.

–Bach, obviously. Drama was Sherlock's division. Never liked Mendelssohn, too much sugar, he had said. Mother had liked Mendelssohn though- Ah, bug collection. _Does that bring back memories_, Mycroft grins, for real this time. He clearly, _clearly _remembers his brother finding the disgusting red-and-black one (_Mylabris pustulata_, Sherlock, not red-and-black-monster-bug, now, repeat after me…) He had been hyper for a week.

He falters at the picture.

He knew it existed. He had seen it at Mummy's house, had seen it in one of the few albums she kept, God, he even remembers when it was taken, and where, what he wore and how Sherlock wouldn't sit still, how he had to keep his brother half on his lap, one arm draped over his shoulder to prevent them both from falling off the rickety piano stool, how his mother had to pry the black eye patch out of Sherlock's sticky hands, and how he made him sneeze on purpose by tickling his black curls in his brother's nose.

Mummy had cut his hair the very next day.

He picks up the light frame and stares, mesmerized. _The Holmes boys_, father had stated proudly. Sherlock had been four. Before the bugs_, _before the science, seeing everything and Bach's haunting partitas, and before _jab-jab-righthook, again Mye again!_

Mycroft stares, catalogues and remembers.

He is still awake when Sherlock wakes up.

* * *

><p>John makes breakfast while muttering angrily at the both of them; Sherlock happily ignores his indignant mumbles of <em>imbeciles, idiots<em> and _bloody irresponsible_; Mycroft thanks him for the tea.

John decides to ignore them both and leaves the flat.

Jabs and insults are exchanged, some in French, some in English, and some are not quite insults. They spend some time deducing the name, address and profession of John's new girlfriend, and switch to more pressing matters: the loose ends of the case _(wrapped up-_dull), Mycroft's diet (_eloquent as always, little brother) _and Sherlock's need to rest_ (oh piss off, Mycroft). _

As the older Holmes shrugs on his coat, after promising Sherlock that he _will_ send someone to personally knock him out if he doesn't lie down at some point during the day, Sherlock suddenly nods, gives something that isn't a grimace but not quite a smile either and shrugs,

"Thanks, Mycroft," and then looks away to some interesting pattern on the floor no one else has yet discovered.

Mycroft resists the urge to bite his lip, "Thank you, Sherlock"

He turns to leave before hesitating.

"Sherlock, I'm, I wish I… I should have –"

"Don't," his brother shakes his head and briefly, very briefly, rests his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "You were never like him."

He turns, goes inside, and is gone again.

* * *

><p><strong>End<strong>

* * *

><p><em>I loved writing this... <em>

_Thank you for reading. And above all, a huge thank you to my wonderfull betas: Impishtubist and Sidney Sussex. Thanks for the proofreading, britpicking, style-suggestions and general nice-being-ness, you are awesome! _

_And of course, TadPole11, thanks for prompting a Sherlock-and-Mycroft-on-a-case prompt!  
><em>


	3. Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

Sorry guys, I've been told the story couldn't be found, so I've had to delete it and upload it again.

So, sorry 'bout that, Tadpole11, thanks for messaging me and pointing out the viewing-problems, and thanksa all for your patience!

X

Feej

*_And lotluz and smartkitty, I've got your reviews saved in my mailbox (had to delete them with the story, nooooo!) Thanks :)_*


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